I imagine you, your whirring gears slowly springing to life in some far distant future, the fire in your clockwork heart beating strong as you rise like a phoenix from the ashes. Even in your absence, my beautiful clockwork maid. I only hope that you find these letters and know that I’ve led a good life. Lullabies sung by an old friend to a safe rest.Īnd a safe rest I will have, cradled in the memorabilia of my past, slowly withering away until the elements of time reduces me to dust and the pages, so many pages, of our stories become lost in the maelstrom of time. Sometimes when the air is just so I hear your response in the breeze.
I know you hear her voice singing to you. In the solitude of the autumn of my life, I can sometimes hear our ship, it’s heart gently singing, calling to us to once again to take our place amongst the clouds. Omnipresent, solitary, unable to speak.Īnd now, as my dawn turns to dusk, I write this letter, I am dying.
When the sun sets across the fields of wheat just right, I see you, crouched like a rusted scarecrow.Īnd as we share the same view of the setting sun in it’s warm amber hues, I know in my heart of hearts that like that sun you can still feel my presence as I feel yours. You’ll have to excuse the lateness of this letter, my darling, but time has been cruel to us both.
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